A Fight To Remember
by RadioShack84
Summary: Ronon only celebrates two anniversaries. This is the second.


Disclaimer: I don't own SGA or the characters.

* * *

"Rodney, where's Ronon?" Sheppard asked as he approached a nondescript corner table in the nondescript backwater tavern they were currently visiting. The bar was nearly identical to a dozen others they'd encountered in their travels, but McKay's level of popularity in this one appeared to be unusually high. The scientist was surrounded by three women and four teenage boys who didn't look old enough to be drinking, yet were quite obviously drunk. With the women, their drunkenness wasn't so obvious by their mannerisms, but they weren't anywhere close to the type that Rodney usually attracted and that was evidence enough.

"So _then_ he shot me, but with the shield the bullet bounced right off!"

"McKay!" Sheppard called, a bit louder this time. Over the laughter emanating from Rodney's drinking buddies and the general din of the establishment, John figured he hadn't been heard.

"Oh, hey Sheppard. Have a beer," Rodney said with a grin, shoving a mug across the table toward John. Foam sloshed over its brim as it caught on the rough wooden surface of the table. "Ronon's getting a piece of quiet beer at the bar," McKay continued, chuckling. "He said so when I invited him to join us, but this beer's not too loud. I tried to tell him, but he just growled at me. Hey, what's that?" Rodney pointed to the glowing pendant hanging from a leather cord around Sheppard's neck.

John glanced down at the necklace, then back at Rodney. The scientist had obviously gone past his beer quota, for he was completely fixated on the square object. One of the patrons had been passing out the trinkets earlier in the evening, and John distinctly remembered McKay snagging two out of the basket. He could see the cord of one looped backward around the scientist's neck even now, but to save time John took his off and handed it to McKay, who grinned at him again. Sheppard rolled his eyes, but smiled back before turning away from the table. He needed to find Ronon.

The team from Atlantis had arrived on M4X-135 the day before for their bi-monthly trade and 'long weekend' as Rodney liked to call it. The village of Cha-ling'ta—and the planet itself, for that matter—weren't much to look at: dry and dusty with too much sun, but cool nights and a friendly local tavern where they'd spent many an evening on their recent visits. It was one of few places outside of Atlantis where Sheppard was comfortable enough to allow his team to let their guard down a little and indulge in a few beers. He would occasionally treat himself to one or two as well, but not tonight. Tonight he was the designated driver, so to speak, and wired thanks to the horrible iced-coffee concoction he'd been forced to drink in lieu of home-brewed ale. The fact that he hadn't seen Ronon in quite awhile now was also contributing to his edginess.

John wove his way through the crowd to check the bar once more for his teammate, and on the way spotted Teyla huddled around a table with several women she'd befriended over the past months, deep in conversation. It seemed everyone had found their social niche tonight, with the exception of Ronon. Ronon didn't mingle. He didn't have deeply personal discussions with anyone either, especially not on a day as personally significant as this one.

The Satedan had tolerated John's presence on the stool next to him for the duration of two beers this evening (two iced-coffees for John), but it had been obvious that his mind was someplace else. Knowing exactly where that someplace was, Sheppard had quietly told the barkeep to put the rest of Ronon's drinks on his tab before clapping the big man on the shoulder and leaving him to it. Now, scanning the row of barstools for an occupant with familiar dreadlocks—and coming up empty, as he'd guessed—John thought that maybe he should've had the barkeep inform him if Ronon left. Not that it would've done any good. Half the village was in here tonight, and the Satedan blended in surprisingly well with the locals. To the man pouring the drinks, he would have just been another round.

Sheppard glanced at his watch. It had been at least an hour and a half since he'd last seen Ronon on the stool where an even larger man now sat, and it could have easily been that long since Rodney had seen the Satedan, as he'd wager that McKay currently had no sound concept of the passage of time. Dodging a young couple more capable of giggling than walking, John ducked outside. The side-yard of the tavern wasn't crowded as it had been on some of their earlier visits, not that that was surprising. It was late fall, and despite the heat that had persisted during the day, there was a distinct chill in the air now that the sun had set. Zipping his jacket, John scanned the few people occupying the benches scattered around the open lot, but there was no sign of Ronon. Maybe he'd gone back to the inn? It was a possibility, but something told John that that was not what had happened. He decided to check around back and then head for their room, just to be sure.

Nothing remarkable greeted Sheppard as he rounded the corner of the building. It was a stereotypical back alley: dim and dirty, complete with a couple of drunks relieving themselves behind a trash bin. Ronon was obviously not there, and John was about to turn back when he noticed a sheet of paper stuck to the wall, half-illuminated by the alley's single flickering light. He wasn't sure what it was about the paper that had caught his attention, but John made his way over to it, eyes scanning down the page. It was a list of names. There were two short handwritten columns and in the second was one he recognized: Ronon Dex of Sateda.

"Haveyou place…your wageryet?"

John turned at the sound of the slurred voice, and saw one of the men from behind the dumpster grinning at him. "Wager for what?" Sheppard asked.

"Thefi'sofcourse." The man gestured at the list and grinned wider.

"Fights?"

"Fise." Happy Drunk nodded, miming a couple of punches. "Warriorsnight."

_Warriors_ night? John groaned inwardly. What had Ronon gotten himself into? He asked Happy, "Where do I make a wager for the fights?"

"Bar." He pointed at the wall. "Thengothere." He pointed to the outbuilding about 25 yards away. "Fise in halfhour." Happy grinned once more, then stumbled away down the alley. John peeled the list off the wall and went the opposite direction, back into the tavern. It was getting late, but if anything the crowd had thickened, and John was thankful for his thin frame as he wedged himself between two patrons and waited to catch the barkeep's attention.

"What'll ya have?" the bartender asked with the disinterest of a man who'd already poured far too many drinks for one day.

John held up the list of names. "Where can I make a wager for the fights?"

The barkeep glanced at the sheet and then back at Sheppard, his expression unchanged. "I don't know what you mean. What'll ya have?"

_First rule of Fight Club_, John thought. Retrieving a couple of bills of the local currency from his pocket, he slid them across the bar, pulling back slightly when the barkeep moved to take them. "Where?"

Stepping to his left, the bartender slid a half-empty mug away from a patron in a stupor who was all but drooling into it. He grabbed the man's shoulder to get his attention. "Fredder, old boy, you're cut off. Why don't you make some room for my friend here?"

John watched while 'Fredder' roused himself enough to blink a couple of times. He mumbled something before slowly dragging his hunch-backed frame from the stool and staggering off into the crowd. The barkeep indicated with a nod of his head that John should have a seat.

Not half a minute later, a small round man in gold-rimmed glasses and a pin-striped suit maneuvered himself onto the stool to Sheppard's right. The ease with which he displaced that stool's former occupant didn't escape John's notice: a simple clap on the shoulder had the patron excusing himself in a hurry. The little man flipped open a notebook and his eyes cut over to John. "You're new."

"You could say that. He's new too," John pointed to Ronon's name on the list. "Thought I might keep an eye on him, if that's all right?"

"It's all right if you make a wager," the man said, quirking an eyebrow.

"What's the buy-in?"

"A silver shuffle."

Now it was John's turn to raise an eyebrow. If he was remembering his slang correctly, that was 500 credits. It seemed a little excessive for the average villager, but due to Atlantis' trading arrangement he currently had a pocket full of local cash that they wouldn't need on the other side of the stargate. Still, he wondered how Elizabeth would feel about him betting on a prizefight, even if he was betting on Ronon. "Put me down for Dex for a gold shuffle," John said. Hey, he _was_ betting on Ronon.

Gold Glasses gave him a satisfied nod, and John saw him scribble 'Sheppard – 1000' under a column in his notebook. _That explains the steep buy-in_, John thought, certain he hadn't supplied the bookie with his name. "Anything else? A wager on The Hound of Jalla'ta, perhaps?"

"Maybe next time," John answered. Gold Glasses nodded and gave him instructions on who and how to pay to be admitted to the fight before slipping off his stool, only to reappear further down the bar, flipping open his notebook to take down another last-minute wager.

* * *

After more than a year living in Atlantis, Ronon still had little need for calendars. Back on Sateda he'd used one, of course, and he was slowly growing accustomed to Earth's calendar due to the necessity of keeping track of missions and other responsibilities. In the intervening years, however, there had been only two dates worthy of note: the day he'd been taken from Sateda by the Wraith, and the day he'd found Sheppard's team and had the tracking device removed from his back. When you were a runner, other dates just weren't important. You didn't observe holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, or anything else. You occasionally found out what month or year it was if you talked to someone who could give you enough information so you could do the math.

Ronon had done the math after choosing to stay in Atlantis. He'd then swiped a calendar with a picture of several knives on the front from one of Sheppard's men—only to find out its theme was cooking, not knives—and marked the two dates in red. He'd celebrated the anniversary of the tracking device's removal four months ago, with an extra extra helping at dinner. Sheppard and Teyla had wanted to have a party, but it didn't feel right. Today was the other anniversary, and celebrating was out of the question. Fighting, however, seemed more than appropriate even if it was more of a competition than a life-or-death battle.

The crowd roared as the first pairing was announced, and Ronon felt his adrenaline kick up as he stepped into the ring. He was a new fighter, and therefore given priority. In another instance, he might've taken offense since that essentially meant he was cheap pre-game entertainment, but not tonight. Tonight it was the fighting that mattered, not the glory. Still, Ronon snorted as his opponent was closed into the ring opposite him. The man couldn't have been taller than Zelenka. At least this guaranteed that he'd get to fight in more than one round, but he'd have to pull his punches with this guy or risk a permanent injury disqualification. Ronon dropped his arms to his sides and relaxed his stance as the announcer finished introducing The Hound of Jalla'ta. He readied himself as The Hound launched across the ring. He turned his body as The Hound drew even, and in one fluid motion had flipped the man over his shoulder. That and a well-placed uppercut declared Ronon winner of the first round, and the Satedan made his way back to his corner and finished off his beer. Someone in the crowd who was too easily impressed handed him another with a clap on the shoulder. Soon enough, the second opponent was announced, and Ronon stepped back up, hoping for more of a challenge.

* * *

Sheppard knew better than to try to talk Ronon out of this. Nothing short of a direct order would accomplish it anyway, and he'd never get close enough to the Satedan to issue that order. He'd been lucky to get close enough for a clear view of the ring, and the first round was over with before he managed it, but it was amazing what a few extra bills in the right person's pocket would buy, and John ended up standing just a few feet away from Gold Glasses in what appeared to be the VIP section.

The announcer was bidding farewell to The Hound of Jalla'ta while two other men hauled his unconscious—or at least very dazed—body out of the ring. John felt eyes watching him and turned to see Gold Glasses smiling. The old man shrugged, an innocent look on his face, and John snorted softly before turning his attention back to the ring. The Hound hadn't stood a chance against Ronon and everyone, especially the bookie, knew it. Dar'nath of Quantapa, however, seemed a more formidable opponent.

Made of muscle, Dar'nath stood about Sheppard's height, and there was something fierce about him that would have made John cautious. Ronon apparently had no such feelings of wariness and stepped into the fight with a grin on his face, a grin that was still in place—though more menacing and a little bloody—ten minutes later. Dar'nath was no longer smiling, and he howled as Ronon's fist impacted his kidney. The crowd roared, Dar'nath recovered, and, crouching low to the ground, literally pounced on Ronon, making John wonder if the man was strictly human.

Not that it mattered much. Ronon got his hands up in time to prevent the choke hold that Dar'nath had been going for, turned around, and slammed his assailant's back into the wall of the ring. It wasn't a high wall, and thus the combination of the impact and Ronon's arms prying away Dar'nath's sent the Quantapa native hurtling over the wall and out of the ring. The crowd parted with a cheer and Dar'nath landed hard, doing his back further disservice. A KO was called, which made the spectators roar again, but John's focus shifted away, settling on Ronon. The Satedan was making his way back toward his corner of the ring, but his pace was sluggish, an adjective that Sheppard rarely associated with his large friend. When he saw Ronon stagger, John took an involuntary step forward, eyes narrowing. He'd been watching the fight carefully and Ronon had taken a few hits, but nothing severe enough to cause injury. That left alcohol as the most likely explanation. Ronon normally stuck with beer, but John wouldn't doubt that he'd splurged for a few of the stronger shots that evening. If that was the case, and the drinks were just now hitting his system, it was going to get worse before it got better. Sure enough, the next two matches saw Ronon's reactions grow increasingly impaired, to the point that he actually went down—albeit briefly—from a hit to his midsection. He recovered though and was ultimately, if sloppily, victorious.

John watched critically as the Satedan returned once again to his corner and lowered himself onto the stool that had been placed there. Ronon's shoulders were slumped, dreadlocks obscuring his face as his head hung forward. He barely reacted when the announcer called up the next match, but John certainly did.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, for your special entertainment this evening, a double-header. Ronon Dex of Sateda will defend the night's title against two crowd favorites. Just returning from Krala'ta, you know 'em, you love 'em, you just don't want to meet 'em in the ring, Goa Bejeacus and Ned!"

The masses cheered and surged to their feet, and John had to dodge at least four people before he was able to see what was going on. The moment he did, Sheppard began glancing around for the shortest path to the ring. Ronon's new opponents were huge, even by Ronon standards, and with the Satedan in his present condition, John couldn't see this ending well. He spotted the most probable exit from his spectator section, and sidled toward it as nonchalantly as possible. As he neared though, three men appeared from the shadows, clearly intending to block his way. Smiling insincerely at the men, John slipped back into the throng of people.

The room had taken on a sustained dull roar and each time the howling intensified John tensed, but there was no way he could help Ronon if he couldn't get to him. He had identified three other possible routes of egress, but each was guarded similarly to the first. By the time he'd confirmed this, however, the excited whooping of the crowd got the better of his curiosity. John elbowed his way back to within viewing distance just as Ronon was flung to the ground by the larger of the giant men (Bejeacus?) and the other jumped on top and began punching Ronon repeatedly.

A fair fight it wasn't, but from the crowd's reaction that was nothing unusual. What was unusual was Ronon's reaction. He wasn't fighting back. Sure, he was getting in a hit here and there, but John had seen Ronon fight. He should've been back on his feet by now, not still battling to get out from beneath Ned. Glancing away for a moment, John heard a growl from the ring. When he looked back, Ronon had managed to flip his opponent, but Ned wasn't letting up, even from beneath. Then, out of nowhere—and as if Ronon were nothing more than a lightweight—Bejeacus was hauling the Satedan off Ned and throwing him, quite literally, halfway across the ring.

John winced as his friend hit the floor, and when he didn't get up again, Sheppard was done being courteous. He elbowed his way through the masses until he reached Gold Glasses. "I need to get down there."

"I'm afraid that isn't possible right now, Colonel."

"Why? Did I not wager enough?" Sheppard asked stiffly, allowing some of the frustration he was feeling to seep into his voice.

"That's not it at all. No one other than the fighters is allowed into the ring until the round is over. You may, however, place an additional wager before the second half of the round commences."

"You're joking, right? Is he even conscious?" Sheppard turned his eyes back to the ring, where Ronon was still on the ground, albeit sluggishly moving his arms and legs. His face was bloody, and he didn't look coherent.

"If he's not, it will be a rather short round, won't it? Now, would you like to place an additional wager?"

The bookie looked a little surprised when John pulled more currency from his pocket. "I would, but not in the traditional sense."

At that, Gold Glasses raised an eyebrow. "What did you have in mind?"

"Even the score a little, make this a fairer fight. You keep the money either way," John said, offering several bills to the round man.

"An interesting proposal, Colonel." The bookie swiped the bills and nodded at one of the men near him with amusement. "Please take Colonel Sheppard to the arena."

The gate closed behind him with a somewhat ominous clang and John looked across the arena at Goa Bejeacus and Ned—receiving praise from the crowd but also looking quite pleased with themselves—and wondered again what Ronon had gotten them into. Bejeacus was easily twice Ronon's weight, and Ned was comparable to the Satedan, but now was not the time to size up the competition, no pun intended. John shifted his focus to Ronon and hurried to the opposite corner. "Hey, Chewie. This isn't usually part of the long-weekend itinerary, or is this where you always sneak off to when McKay won't shut up about losing at poker?"

It took a moment, but Ronon slowly lifted his head. Sheppard winced at the bloodshot eyes, now rimmed by rapidly-darkening bruises. "Sheppard?"

"Yeah, buddy. What say we—"

"Sheppard, behind you!"

And then it was on.

Being hauled into the air and tossed across the ring like a sack of potatoes by Goa Bejeacus was only the beginning. Sheppard didn't recall hitting his head on the way down, but that was the only explanation that made sense for the disjointed events that followed. John got up from the floor, only to be dropped again, scarcely registering the pummeling he was dealt in between. When he made it to his knees the next time, seconds or minutes later he wasn't sure, it was to a view of Ronon receiving similar treatment. No, scratch that, the Satedan was having the shit beaten out of him.

Rage gave Sheppard the strength to stand despite the spinning of the room and the pain pulsating through his body. As he staggered toward the trio his aim was only to distract Ronon's assailants. Dazed or not, John wasn't delusional enough to think that he was likely to accomplish much more than that against these two. He stepped up behind the smaller of the men—Ted, wasn't it?—who was laughing as he planted his foot into Ronon's midsection. Ronon was sent sprawling, splatters of blood trailing him to the floor.

Ted (Fred?) spun around when John tapped his shoulder, a slight look of surprise crossing the big man's face. John took a swing but his vision blurred before his fist made contact and the blow only glanced off the jaw of one of Fred's three faces. It put John off balance and he probably would have fallen even without the help of Fred—no, it was Ned!—sweeping his legs out from under him.

Impact with the floor was the last thing John clearly registered. He wasn't completely unconscious, for the world carried on around him, but he couldn't distinguish the roar of voices from the rushing sound in his ears, or the myriad of dull thuds nearby from the pounding in his temples. He couldn't even remember what he was doing here, or where 'here' was.

Slowly, the voices faded away and the spotlights overhead went dark. Somewhere nearby dim illumination persisted, and Sheppard lifted his head, trying to make sense of the deep shadows that blurred and shifted, parted and merged, but the kaleidoscope effect was too much and he squeezed his eyes closed as his stomach rolled. A groan and weak coughing startled him enough to make him look again, and he turned his head slowly to the left, spotting Ronon collapsed in a heap not four feet away.

"R'nn?" Sheppard mumbled. Another groan was the only answer John got, and concern prodded away the lethargy plaguing his body until he drug himself into something poorly resembling a crawl. Very poorly. He made it within arm's reach of his friend, hand clasping a warm shoulder, before he collapsed himself. He imagined that was the position Teyla and Rodney found them in later, but he wouldn't have sworn to it. The details were fuzzy at best, as were those concerning how they'd gotten back to Atlantis and to the infirmary. John thought they'd been home for awhile now, but he had no idea for how long and was fairly sure he was just now experiencing his first moment of clear-headedness since the fight. He just wasn't sure why his first moment of clear-headedness made no sense.

Why was he sitting next to Ronon's bed in the infirmary's ICU, with an IV bag in his lap and no nurses or wheelchair in sight, even though his ribs hurt like hell and he was sure he'd face-plant if he tried to stand up? Beckett didn't normally let him do things like this when he felt this bad. Whatever the case, John decided to puzzle it out later. He may have been lucid, but he wasn't yet firing on all cylinders. Carefully leaning back in his chair, he winced and shifted his eyes to Ronon. And winced again. No part of the Satedan's face was its natural color. Few parts weren't swollen or stitched. Ronon's left arm was in a sling, his right leg propped up on pillows and wrapped with an ace bandage. A sheet covered him to his chest, but didn't completely hide the bruising present there. John's own ribs twinged in sympathy, even as a troubled frown crossed his face and his attention turned to the many monitors attached to Ronon. How had he let this happen to a member of his team, to his friend? And on a friendly world, no less.

"Ach, not again, lad. You're not in any shape ta be up and about yet."

John's head whipped around at the sound of the voice, and he hissed at the sharp ache that coursed through his neck as a result. After a moment he mustered a pained smile. "Yeah, Doc, I'd kinda figured that part out already."

Beckett's eyebrows shot up and he smiled back. "Well, well, I was wonderin' when that concussion of yours was goin' ta get ta rightin' itself. It's good ta have ya back, Colonel."

"Concussion?" Things were beginning to make sense, and John gestured to the room. "How many times have I...?"

The doctor crossed his arms in front of his chest. "This is the third. The first time ya didn't quite make it, if you're wonderin' why your knee hurts."

"Sorry."

"Not your fault. Concussions aren't known for their predictability."

"How's Ronon?"

At that, Carson's expression turned serious. "Holding his own, but he'll be out of commission for a good while I'm afraid. Aside from the obvious, there was some internal bleeding, which we repaired surgically not too long ago. All in all, he was lucky. Broken ribs, bruised kidney, pulled muscles, twisted ankle, but miraculously no concussion and we managed ta save his spleen."

It didn't sound all that lucky from where John was sitting, but looking at who the opponents had been... "He'll be all right though?"

"Aye, in a few weeks' time. Ya can bet he won't be too happy in between, but he'll get there. What in the world the two of ya were thinkin' fightin' like that, I'll never know. I thought Rodney was goin' ta have a conniption. Elizabeth's not too pleased with ya either, Colonel," Carson talked as he moved to the opposite side of the bed and studied Ronon's various monitors for a few moments before laying his stethoscope carefully to the sleeping man's chest, listening to his heart and lungs. He made a couple of notes in the Satedan's chart before he realized Sheppard hadn't responded. "Colonel?"

Sheppard was obviously lost in thought, a slight frown appearing on his face as he watched over his teammate. Beckett frowned too, though for different reasons. The colonel was starkly pale, hunched forward, and had an arm pressed against his ribs, obviously in pain. When Beckett crossed back to him and placed a hand on his shoulder to get his attention, slight tremors greeted his touch. "John?"

"I should've been paying closer attention, Doc. I knew he'd been drinking, but by the time I found out about the fights..." John shook his head, instantly regretting the action as residual pain from the concussion flared. He brought up the hand not pressed to his ribs and pinched the bridge of his nose in vain, then stared blankly for a few seconds at the forgotten IV taped to the back of his hand. "Never thought it would get...so out of control," he mumbled, resting his forehead against his palm.

Beckett squeezed his shoulder gently. "Ya don't owe me an explanation, son, but ya do need some rest. Let me fetch a wheelchair and we'll get ya back ta bed, all right?"

"'kay." John closed his eyes against the throbbing in his head, and therefore didn't notice that Ronon's were open, or as open as they could get with all the swelling.

"Got off...too easy...Sheppard."

As startled as he was by the weak, raspy voice of his friend, John forced himself to look up slowly so as not to agitate the bass drummer pounding away inside his skull. He smiled when he saw that Ronon really was awake. "Hey, buddy. Welcome back."

Ronon grunted softly. "Mean it...Sheppard."

"What?"

"I...got off too...easy. 's why I fought...in remembrance. What they went through...defending Sateda in those last hours..." Ronon trailed off, shaking his head ever so slightly. "The Wraith...I was just taken...I got off easy."

John opened his mouth to reply, but Ronon had already slipped back into sleep. "You and I are going to have a long talk later, Chewie, count on it," he sighed.

Beckett arrived a few moments later and helped Sheppard transfer his stiffened body into the wheelchair. It was all John could do to not pass out at the pain and dizziness the maneuver caused, and even though the doc assured him that was normal considering the severity of his concussion, Sheppard had never been so glad to see an infirmary bed.

That conversation with Ronon was going to have to wait until _much_ later he had a feeling. His eyelids were already at half-mast as Beckett hung his IV bag back on its hook, and the doctor soon injected something that made them droop even further. As the medication pulled him toward sleep, Sheppard marveled at how Ronon knew just what to say to deflect blame away from his CO and place it squarely on his own shoulders. It was a talent he and Ronon shared, a vice really. Sheppard would still feel guilt for not resolving the situation before Ronon got hurt, and he was sure the Satedan knew it, but John appreciated the effort at absolution. He also understood his friend's actions, and had to admit that were he carrying Ronon's baggage around, he'd have fought too.

In a way, he guessed he had.


End file.
